Human
by ImpalaLove
Summary: 10x09 SPOILERS. "He's numb now, but somewhere down deep he knows it's not the right kind."


**I realize I've been out of the game for a little while, but last night's episode made it impossible to resist posting something (despite the fact that I should be studying for finals right about now). Anyway, obviously SPOILERS for 10x09, particularly the last scene. **

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><p><span>Human<span>

He tried so hard. So goddamn hard.

He worked on the car more than even Sam knew, investigated every little rattle from her interior and smudged out every tiny scratch until she was perfect again, smooth and gleaming and alive. Worked on her all night sometimes, when vivid gasps of dreaming kept his eyes wide open and tendrils of smoke filled his head, wouldn't let him rest. He worked on her until it was as if he'd never abandoned her in the first place. As if he'd never let her insides rot in the four months when his own insides had been tarnished beyond repair. He wasn't quite ready to dig through his own walls, face the empty blackness that awaited him there, so Baby was the next viable option. He knew she could be fixed.

And he ate. Ate as much as he possibly could. Tried to eat the same way he used to before everything; before Hell and Heaven and death and demonhood. Shoved down cheeseburgers and cheese fries and grilled cheese…anything with _cheese_ in the name and enough cholesterol and saturated fat to make Sam give him the stink-eye. As long as it wasn't suspicion, Dean was in the clear. As long as Sam was crinkling his nose in mock distaste and nothing more, Dean could pretend that all that food actually did something to quell his hunger. Didn't make him feel emptier than before.

He drank too, but it was always just the right amount. A few beers here and there, whiskey every once in a while. Just enough to get a nice buzz going. Or…what should've been a nice buzz. Alcohol didn't seem to have the same effect anymore. Sure, an entire bottle of whiskey would still do the trick, but he didn't think Sam would've taken too kindly to that, no matter how much of a relief it would've been to just be numb for a while. To just forget for the night.

He's numb now, but somewhere down deep he knows it's not the right kind. He's numb now, but he's hacking and he's slashing and he's probably laughing too. Everything seems muted, so he can't really tell, doesn't actually register much besides the collision of skin and bone and metal. But still the sound of it…it's like an old TV with static spilling out the antenna, wires twisted the wrong way, trying to get reception. Every once in a while the signal will come through and a noise will pierce the thickness around him, and it sounds like screaming or begging or pleading but it doesn't slow him down. Does quite the opposite.

And then it's over and he's kneeling in the middle of this blood-stained floor and he's breathing for the first time in forever and its all calm. Just…peaceful. And he looks and he sees red red red and he tries to remember why that's not right, why none of this is right. But he's distracted because he can taste it. Can literally feel the warm metallic bite of the blood he's spilled as it slides over his tongue. It's not supposed to feel good, he thinks. But that doesn't mean it doesn't feel _good_. There's a blade in his hand and even though it's not the right one, he finds comfort in the grip he holds on it. It feels like it belongs there and it feels like being whole again after so much time spent fighting what's supposed to just _be_.

There's another scream now, and this one pulls him back, eyelids fluttering like he's waking from the dreams that always jerk him awake these days, the ones lathered in carnage. This time it's real though. This time, the smell of iron doesn't fade with waking, instead grows stronger as he takes it all in, really _sees_ the destruction around him now that the brilliant red haze has been scraped away from behind his eyes. And this time, Sam is here.

Sam is here, and Dean is horrified.

"Tell me," Sam pleads, and he sounds like the child he will always be in Dean's eyes. "Tell me you had to do this."

Dean wants to lie, tries it out on his tongue, but it doesn't stick. All that sticks is the blood. "I did…I didn't mean to," he says, the words dripping in misery, his eyes roaming, looking anywhere but at Sam which only makes it worse because then he can really take it all in, can get a clear picture of the dead men lying on the cold wooden floor around him, a thick canvas of red and blood and eyes wide open.

"No," Sam is pleading again, a desperate denial that tears its way up his chest, dragged straight from his pounding heart. "No, tell me it was them or you," he demands, and Dean wants to lie again but all he can do is look and look and tell Sam everything by telling him nothing. He can't hold his brother's gaze for very long, but Sam finds all that he needs to in that brief contact, lets his hands fall from Dean's face as his shoulders collapse in the grief of losing, losing his brother again.

Dean's still frozen on the ground, wants to pretend he's stuck in that same dream like last night and the night before and the night before, but the knife is there, burning a reminder into his palm so he lets it clatter to the ground, curls his hands in so they're resting on his knees, palms facing up like he's begging for forgiveness, like he's wondering why.

"Okay," Sam says and Dean thinks that word shouldn't even exist in their vocabulary anymore. "Okay," he says again."We need to go, Dean. We need to leave."

Dean nods but doesn't move, lets his head fall forward until Sam grabs his face again, pulls his eyes back up so they can meet with his own.

"Come on, Dean. Come on," he says. It's that same angry pleading and Dean can't say 'no' but he also can't get his legs to work right so Sam pulls him up by his arms, drags him a few steps until Dean snaps back to himself, starts moving with his little brother. He feels the weight of Sam's breathing as they walk together out of the house, tries to pull away but Sam holds him steady, wraps one long arm around Dean's chest, hand resting over his hollowed out heart.

"Sam…" Dean says, and it sounds like something from deep inside his lungs has burst to the surface with the need for oxygen. "S…"

"Okay," Sam says again, that same, stupid word. He's still holding onto Dean like he's the last parachute on a plane with no working engine, so Dean doesn't bother to watch where they're going, just lets Sam guide him, eyes fixed on the ground. "It's okay. Let's get you home. Let's go home," Sam says.

Dean nods, jerks slightly at the squeak of the Impala's passenger door being opened, doesn't look to see that it's Cas who's done so as he slides willingly into the seat, lets his head fall back against it. His eyes close at the same time the door does. Dean hears the low murmur of voices outside his window, but doesn't try to listen. He feels the itch on his skin as the blood begins to dry there, everywhere, stained and crusted over. Red to black. His hands are still resting on his knees with palms upturned, the blood caked underneath his fingernails and inside the crevices of his bent fingers. Dean looks down at them, inspecting the evidence of what he's done, only to startle again when Sam slides into the driver's seat beside him and guns the engine.

Sam says something about Cas and Claire finding another car but Dean's busy thinking about grilled cheese and the Three Stooges, wondering how that could've been just a few days ago. It wasn't that funny, the episode he'd been watching. It just felt good to laugh. Just to laugh. He's glad he got one more chance to sit with his brother and be normal for a minute, because the choice from here is clear. The literal blood on his hands is enough to convince him of what he's already known. He's too far gone. He's too far gone, and Cas already promised.

Sam's talking again, a random slew of heartbroken reassurance that even _he_ doesn't believe, but Dean doesn't even try to stop him, can't open his own mouth for fear of what will come pouring out. He has a feeling it'll be more blood, because that's still all he can taste and the usual cheeseburger won't wash out the tang of it this time. There's a different kind of hunger and it's burning inside of him and it's pulling him apart from the inside, veins screaming for another taste. It sickens him how badly a part of him wants it. It scares him how big that part of him _is_. He's never bought into the whole destiny spiel but maybe it would be easier to start believing. Because then he could just chalk all of this up to fate, could pretend there's no deeper significance behind this darkness that festers in his bones except a plan already set in place long ago. Maybe, no matter how hard he tries, he'll always be cursed. Maybe there's no avoiding it. It's just that he had tried so goddamn _hard._ To do what he had always done. To just keep eating and drinking and sleeping and living while this ravenous craving boiled up around and inside of him, swept away everything he had ever found comfort in. He tried to just pretend, to just keep moving forward until he remembered what it was to be anything but hungry.

It had seemed like the most human thing to do.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading- reviewsthoughts are always appreciated, and best of luck to all of you in waiting out this little hiatus!**


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